Bound
by lady of scarlet
Summary: He had lost her too many times to let her go now. Another post-ep for Zebras, because you really can’t have too much of a good thing. E/O. Bound: Obligated, resolved, determined, destined, restrained, compelled. -Angst, language, violence, dark themes-
1. With or Without You: U2

**Title:** Bound  
**Chapter:** 1/6  
**Author:** Scarlet  
**Characters:** Elliot/Olivia  
**Rating/Warnings:** FRM (graphic violence, angst, language, and dark themes), spoilers for everything up to and including 10.22 'Zebras'  
**Word Count:** 1530  
**Summary:** He had lost her too many times to let her go now. Another post-ep for Zebras, because you really can't have too much of a good thing. E/O. _Bound: Obligated, resolved, determined, destined, restrained, compelled._

**Story Disclaimer: **I do not own Law and Order SVU, though I do love it. No infringement is intended and no money is being made. For entertainment purposes only.**  
A/N:** This is my first submission to this fandom. I've been following the show since I was a kid though, so really it was inevitable. Concrit is appreciated, as I am always looking to improve my writing. Huge thanks to **oroburos69** for the beta and support. Also, this has quite a lot of 'character death' angst for something that no one actually dies in, if you aren't into that sort of thing. I promise a relatively happy ending to balance the angst. Chapter titles reflect the songs that inspired them.

* * *

Of all the fucked up shit he'd ever gotten himself into, Elliot had never been so humiliated as he was at having let some dumbass kid get the drop on him.

His head throbbed and pounded relentlessly, made all the worse by the knife slicing into his chest and his frustrating inability to do anything about it with duct tape holding him securely in place. But, at the moment, all he could think about was how Munch would call it 'cosmic irony' that the great Elliot Stabler was taken down, not by a violent suspect on the street or in a gallant shoot out, but by a lunatic little lab tech and his own damn stupidity.

It would be funny, really, if death weren't a very real possibility at the moment.

Stuckey was right. He should have seen it coming, but he'd been so preoccupied looking for horses that he hadn't even noticed the goddamn zebra right in front of him.

The sharp edge of the blade carved into his skin and he seethed behind the duct tape covering his mouth.

Regrets and should-have's rushed unbidden through his mind—taking up the valuable space he knew would be better spent coming up with a way to get himself out of this mess—and yet he couldn't seem to stop himself.

He should have spent more time with his kids, should have made that soccer practice last week, should have called his mother back on Saturday, should have taken out the trash before he came on shift...

He _really _should have shown the little bastard the consequences of his actions when he had his chance. Though, if he was being honest with himself, his antagonism probably hadn't helped so far.

Elliot knew better than to underestimate the lengths humiliation could drive a person to, especially Stuckey's very public humiliation. He'd seen more damage caused by less.

If he could just get his hands free and—

A single set of footsteps sounded in the hall, followed by the hushed sound of Olivia's voice as it drifted through the corridor outside the lab, stretching languorously to reach his ears. Elliot and Stuckey both froze in surprise.

His escalating rage unconsciously subsided into hope.

Stuckey disappeared as Olivia rounded the corner in her worn leather jacket, an air of repose detectable in the relaxed slope of her shoulders. Elliot's little tendril of hope twisted violently into dread.

_No_. No, no, no. She couldn't be here. She hadn't seen it either. She didn't know. Liv was here for him. Because of him. He had to warn her.

Olivia broke into a run the moment she made eye contact with him, fingers instinctively reaching for her gun before her mind caught up. Her eyes conveyed everything but the understanding he was praying so desperately to find.

He yelled as forcefully as he could, shaking his head emphatically, begging her with his eyes to just _goddamn turn around and run_, it wasn't safe, it was a _trap_. Why wasn't she listening? Why was she still fucking running?

They never _needed_ more than a glance, a nod, a thought. Communication flowed between them, immediately recognized and understood. They walked, fought, and breathed in sync so habitually that somewhere along the way they lost their words. When a miscommunication occurred and the system failed, there was no backup plan, no way to explain, apologise, or forgive.

They had become mute in their unwavering reliance on each other, and now when he needed the words most desperately, they were nowhere to be found. No matter how vehemently he shouted against the tape covering his mouth, the language remained foreign and incomprehensible to her in her blind determination to reach him, to save him. He would be her undoing.

Stuckey appeared behind her suddenly, as though a shadow, and there was no time to react before he pulled the trigger of Elliot's service revolver, releasing three rounds in rapid succession, _bangbangbang._

No warning. No words filled the air where they should have been, only the harsh echo of the gunshots ringing mockingly off the walls. This was wrong. All wrong.

The force of the bullets crashing into her back drove her forward and she dropped heavily to her knees only ten feet away from him. It may as well have been a mile.

A frozen expression of shock painted her features, expressive dark eyes wide and locked on his.

He wrenched his body up in the chair as hard as he could, slamming the metal legs into the floor but the fucking thing just wouldn't give. He couldn't reach her.

Her brow furrowed and she frowned, shuddering as the pain finally registered through the adrenaline he knew was humming in her veins, the way it was in his.

"El," she breathed. A question. A plea. An accusation.

His mind was numb, paralysed as he held her gaze and sweat beaded on his skin. A deep ache took residence in the muscles of his chest and arms as he strained against his bonds. He was trapped, helpless in a nightmare he couldn't control, only able to watch and bleed as his partner looked to him for reassurance that he couldn't give.

The tangy, coppery scent of blood assaulted him with every strained inhalation. O'Halloran's, as the pool continued to form around his cooling body. His own, angrily spreading across the ruined fabric of his shirt. Olivia's as it poured out of her like rich red wine, taking her life with it. Somewhere underneath it all, the bitter smell of coffee reached him.

She choked and sucked in a shuddering breath, swaying slightly. Her lashes fluttered.

"Elliot," his name once again escaped her lips, pained, low and whispered, seeming so far away as she faded in front of him.

There was still time. There had to be more _time_. All he'd ever done was waste it, trusting that more would always come, and it did. It couldn't run out now. He couldn't watch her die. If he could just reach her...Just...

His vision blurred wildly from his exertion and only worsened when he blinked to clear it. He could barely make out her shape in the rushing and swirling lights, but he could hear her again, stronger this time.

"Elliot? Jesus, wake up." He struggled to comprehend as a hand grasped his bicep—Stuckey must be closer than he thought. He just needed a little more time— "Stabler, wake up."

The room rushed away suddenly, ripped out from under him in a flurry of movement even as he tried futilely to hold on to her distorted image.

Elliot bolted upright, momentarily both relieved and confused that there no longer seemed to be anything restraining him. His vision finally focused in the dim light enough for him to realise that Olivia was sitting just inches away from him on the cot, staring at him calmly with one hand resting against the still-twitching muscles of his shoulder.

For a moment he stilled, unable to look away.

No blood marring her clothes, no burns in the fabric of her leather jacket, no anguish casting shadows in her eyes. Just a dream.

The knowledge did little to quiet his pulse, or tame his breath.

He nearly reached out to touch her, to make sure she was real, but stopped himself as his inhibitions clawed their way back into the forefront of his sleep-clouded mind.

The wind of her breath swept against the damp skin of his neck—so close, she had to be able to feel his heartbeat. He could almost feel hers if he concentrated...

"You're bleeding."

Her hand drifted warmly from his collarbone down his chest, where a red stain was quickly forming. He must have pulled something in his sleep. Her hand seemed smaller than it should have been, pressed against him so gently. Too small and not nearly as forceful as he remembered it when it was connecting with his face. How had he never noticed how goddamn small her hands were?

"Let me see," she insisted, fingers already seeking the buttons of his wrinkled dress shirt.

The concern in her eyes was too much, too heavy and real. He couldn't focus, couldn't fucking breathe. She was too _close_.

"Don't," he whispered hoarsely, pushing her hand away and brushing past her to stand after a moment. He tried to ignore the flash of hurt in her eyes. The way they would stray to the bruise across his cheekbone guiltily, as though she somehow held herself responsible for his mistakes to absolve him of them.

He couldn't look at her now, not with her sitting there as though she might break. As though he'd already broken her. She couldn't possibly shatter—she was _Olivia_, his _partner_. It was unfathomable.

He ached to move but realized abruptly that he had nowhere to go, nothing to do but stand awkwardly before her, avoiding her gaze in favour of the scuffed once-white floor like a complete asshole.

She rose silently, and left him to stand alone in the darkened room.

Steam billowed from two paper cups, tea and coffee, sitting on a table by the crib door.

* * *

TBC...


	2. Winter Song: Bareilles & Michelson

**Title:** Bound  
**Chapter:** 2/6  
**Author:** Scarlet  
**Characters:** Elliot/Olivia  
**Rating/Warnings:** FRM (graphic violence, angst, language, and dark themes), spoilers for everything up to and including 10.22 'Zebras'  
**Word Count:** 1, 912  
**Summary:** He had lost her too many times to let her go now. Another post-ep for Zebras, because you really can't have too much of a good thing. E/O. _Bound: Obligated, resolved, determined, destined, restrained, compelled._

**A/N:** Thank you all for the wonderful feedback, I hope you will continue to enjoy this story as it unfolds. (And who else is psyched for next week's episode?) Also, sorry for the delay, I expect the other chapters will be up faster than weekly since I am almost finished the last chapter. (I was waiting on validation at svufiction but, alas, it was not to be...)

* * *

"Hit him again."

She hesitated.

"Don't do it bitch," Elliot granted her permission, falling easily into the role. His eyes offered up his challenge. _Make it hurt. Make it believable. Come on Liv, play with me. _

He knew this game. It was familiar, comfortable. They knew their parts.

But they always did. They had obediently followed the same script, played the same roles with only the circumstances varying for eleven years.

It wasn't his first time and, if they played this right, it wouldn't be his last.

With another open-palmed blow, she accepted.

His jaw stung like hell, but he could still feel the careful restraint behind every impact. He could see it in the way her body swept up the force of her momentum before it could reach him, the slight turn of her shoulders, the straightening of her spine, the intense concentration in her eyes. She was holding back.

Her right hook could have cracked his jaw, and he couldn't help but wondering if that would have been worth it just to see her come undone and loose that careful restraint for just an _instant,_ so he didn't feel like he was the only one falling apart anymore.

She wouldn't, of course. Olivia would never relinquish control. He didn't blame her. If he could get a hold of it again, he wouldn't either.

He blinked as his vision swam, fighting off the ringing in his ears. He wouldn't be any good to her unconscious.

She moved away suddenly, lips moving, warped sound flowing out.

Her words fell to the ground around him, the meaning barely registering amidst the confusion of his busily working mind; _stay on target, disarm him, play the game, play the game, just play the game. _They collected dust there, patiently awaiting his scattered attention as she picked up speed.

The room rushed around him, voices fading in and out of focus. He forced himself to concentrate, watching her work, waiting for his lines to be needed, knowing every move before it came like a well-practiced dance.

Lower his defences.

"_If you knew half of what this prick has done—somebody needs to take him out."_

Throw him off.

"_I just didn't know you felt the same way as I did. I have never had anybody that I could trust."_

Move the suspect into position.

"_Stuckey don't listen to her, she'll turn on you the way she's turned on me."_

"_Damn it shut up!"_

Establish empathy.

"_You like it because... we get each other. We're connected."_

Manage the situation_. _

"_Let's take care of the third wheel."_

"_Wait. Just wait one second."_

Close in for the kill.

"_I want him to watch."_

"_Watch what?"_

Closer.

"_Watch this..."_

Then take him down. Clean, simple. Textbook negotiation.

Only theory was so much less complicated than practice.

_I want him to watch. _Suddenly the situation seemed to spiral out of hand, and he wasn't quite sure how they had gotten here.

Olivia's hand still held Stuckey's, and then she was moving closer to the kid. Going for the gun. She had to disarm him. Elliot didn't have a bullet in him yet, so this was progress.

It was her method that was unexpected, and Elliot tried to push the revulsion from his mind, tried to stay focused. But the sick little fuck's hand was in hers, and his mouth was on hers, and he had no fucking right to be touching her.

She had a plan. This was all part of the plan.

_I want him to watch._ Olivia's hand shifted, moving up Stuckey's chest, his neck, cupping his face.

Ryan's body rested only feet away, and this seemed all too voyeuristic. Elliot flexed his hands against the armrests of his chair, grinding his teeth in restraint, determined not to show any of the tumultuous thoughts churning in his head.

Stuckey's windpipe would crush so easily under his hands, it would be like ripping through tissue paper. So goddamn effortless. He could get away with it, too. Make it look like an accident, as though Stuckey had choked himself to death after beating the hell out of himself before hand, for good measure.

_...Watch. _Her voice rang over and over in his head.

Her eyes were closed. He was the only one that had to watch this.

She was waiting for an opportunity. Elliot was waiting for his. If he could just wait, just wait, it would come. She had a plan, Elliot reminded himself.

Ringing reverberated deafeningly in Elliot's ears.

Her lips parted. He watched. She didn't.

A shot rang out and Elliot jolted, his head clearing instantly.

Suddenly, it wasn't a game anymore.

Olivia's eyes snapped open in shock and she gasped, her lips full and red as she stared at him over Stuckey's shoulder. Slowly, she doubled over and slid to the ground.

"Sorry Liv," Stuckey said sweetly, head tilting to look down at her collapsed form. "No loose ends."

He turned the gun on Elliot.

A sudden impact jerked him back in his seat, the bustling precinct suddenly becoming visible around him as Fin slapped him on the shoulder.

"Sweet dreams, princess?" he chided, walking past with a steaming cup of coffee.

A crescendo of telephones, keyboards, familiar voices and perpetually shifting paper, provoked Elliot's rapidly forming headache. He took a moment to get his bearings, but the echo of the gunshot still rang high above everything else.

He glanced up to see Cragen leaning against Munch's desk, watching him seriously with crossed arms. Obviously unimpressed. Damn. "It wouldn't kill you to take a few days to get some rest, Stabler. Offer's still on the table."

As if being confined to desk duty wasn't bad enough.

"I'll think about it Cap," he lied.

Cragen nodded before turning away.

How he could even drift off in the middle of this madness was beyond him. It was ridiculous really, the whole damn thing. Olivia was fine. She was _fine_. And he was a bit scratched up, but no worse for the wear, which is more than he could say for some of the cases they'd worked.

Somehow this was different. Something had changed, and he wasn't sure what.

Elliot's entire body ached from lack of sleep, lack of food, lack of just about everything and he was goddamn tired of being tired.

He could still see her when his eyes closed. The red of her lips, the shock in her eyes, the gun, _his_ gun_,_ and fuck this, fuck all of it.

He didn't need this. He didn't need to sleep and he sure as hell didn't need the fucked up dreams that went along with it.

His head pounded. There was no air here. None. Just stifling, overwhelming heat choking him to death slowly and deliberately. He had to get out.

Elliot slammed his hands on his desk in frustration, eliciting a wary glance from a nearby maintenance worker. He pushed himself out of his chair and stormed out. He just needed some air, just needed to breathe. A walk, that's all. Just to work the tension out of his muscles.

The cold air slammed into him as he pushed through the doors and he savoured the sensation of it searing through his lungs. Dark clouds painted the sky; thick, smeared shades of grey mixed with the perpetual smog that blanketed the city, making the day seem later than mid-afternoon.

Elliot worked his way down the side of the building to avoid the rush of pedestrians and uniforms crowding the sidewalk, seeking reprieve from the noise. Heat rolled off his skin, despite the cool air, and he could feel his blood boiling in irritation beneath it.

It wasn't a game.

It wasn't a fucking _game_.

She could have died and he, god...he didn't even... Elliot's fist slammed into unyielding brick, and a hot, slicing jolt of pain spread from his knuckles through his wrist and up his arm, as though flames had engulfed it.

He ground his teeth and considered doing it again because, fuck, it was satisfying.

If she'd been just _a bit_ less perceptive, if Stuckey had been _slightly_ more volatile, everything could have been so different. Everything could have fallen apart.

His knuckles were already inflamed and bloody as he flexed his fingers, tensing and relaxing the muscles. He brushed his hand off on his pants and started walking back toward the steps of the precinct.

She had been different lately. Quieter. More subdued.

He had filed it neatly away and rationalized that the job was just getting to her like it got to everyone eventually.

Anything else would have been an invasion of her privacy, but the job was always a ready excuse, a quick escape, as though they weren't all fucked up to begin with. As though it was separate from themselves, something they could walk away from—not something they had brought with them in the first place.

He wasn't sure exactly when it had started, but at some point she had stopped pushing him, challenging him like she used to. Maybe they had both changed. Maybe it was just a consequence of time.

Time had a way of changing things, and it had taken him years to finally accept that maybe change wasn't so horrible after all.

His wedding ring had been sitting in his locker for weeks.

When his wife left him the first time he thought it was over, that his world would no longer function. Everything had been stripped away. But now he saw that nothing could be taken from him that he hadn't already lost.

He loved Kathy. She was the mother of his children. But love changed over time just like everything else, and their affection had developed into something far different from what it once was. They didn't make each other happy anymore, and Elliot had started to realise that maybe that was okay. Time had run its course. He still had his kids, after all.

He had never been the man he wanted to be, the man his family deserved. But he wasn't his father either. That had to count for something.

Elliot sat on the steps, not ready to go back in and wash the grit out of the broken skin of his knuckles or return to that godforsaken desk for another four hours of pushing paper. He shoved the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows and stretched his legs down the stairs.

_I've never had anyone that I could trust._

She's never had anyone.

Some days it seemed like their issues were the only things they had in common, but she had _him_, she could trust him. He wondered if she really knew that, if he even still had her trust.

He'd spent weeks after her stint in Sealview watching her, trying to determine the extent of the damage that she wouldn't allow him to see.

Elliot waited for her to accuse him, yell at him, just fucking look at him again, but the words he anticipated—_Where the hell were you?—_never left her mouth.

It was just another conversation they would never have, another issue unresolved. Maybe that was the way it had to be.

The steps of the precinct were slightly colder than the cool mid-day air, but Elliot sat until restlessness took over and the concrete finally lost its appeal.

A storm had been brewing for days, and the sky looked ready to explode in anticipation.

* * *


	3. Hallelujah: Jeff Buckley

**Title:** Bound

**Chapter:** 3/6

**Author:** Scarlet

**Characters:** Elliot/Olivia

**Rating/Warnings:** FRM (graphic violence, angst, language, and dark themes), spoilers for everything up to and including 10.22 'Zebras'

**Word Count: **2090

**Summary: **He had lost her too many times to let her go now. Another post-ep for Zebras, because you really can't have too much of a good thing. E/O.

_Bound: Obligated, resolved, determined, destined, restrained, compelled._

**A/N:** Last dream sequence, promise. (Elliot just didn't get to play with big-boy emotions until he'd earned it.) References to three specific episodes besides Zebras: Fault (7.19), Paternity (9.09) and Undercover (9.15). Concrit is gleefully welcome.

* * *

Part of him intuitively recognised the sterile lab. The equipment arranged on the tables was increasingly familiar as a computer flashed Dale Stuckey's official employee clearance photo on the screen. Details beyond Elliot's immediate surroundings were foggy and distant, as though the world itself extended only as far as his sight allowed it, and nothing but emptiness lay beyond. Muted shades of grey and soft rays of fluorescent light clouded his peripheral vision.

He tried to focus but found himself drifting uncontrollably along the edge of sleep and wakefulness. The tide of consciousness ebbed, flowed, ebbed again, and he was lost in the lulling motion of it, never any closer to the shore.

Something itched at the back of his mind, begging his attention, but he couldn't quite concentrate, couldn't quite keep his eyes open.

Distant sounds reached him, soft and distorted. Footsteps. Always the footsteps came first. When he recognised them, a fleeting spark of clarity reached his thoughts.

Elliot lifted his head from his chest, the muscles in his neck aching familiarly, and tried to fight back the dread now winding and knotting in his stomach. He'd been here before. This room. This chair. If he could just remember, just hold on to the flashes of memory that teased his awareness...

It was the dread. He knew it. That's what he remembered. Somehow this had happened before. He kept returning here. Maybe this was hell, he considered.

The footsteps came closer—_her_ footsteps, always hers.

As she turned the corner, he knew instinctively what was about to happen. Knew he had no hope of preventing it, but hell if that knowledge was going to stop him from trying.

Memories clawed at him, now more ferocious than before, ripping at the edges of his vision as he ripped at his bonds.

He choked as the images assaulted him.

_Shouting at Olivia in the precinct, the laceration on her neck a stark reminder, "I can't do this anymore. I can't be looking over my shoulder making sure you're okay. I need to know you can do your job and not wait for me to come to the rescue." _

_Olivia's mussed hair and flushed cheeks. Her skin still deathly pale from the accident, as she leans exhausted against the wall outside of his wife and son's hospital room and asks him, "How's the baby?" with a relieved smile and blood stained deep in the fabric of her sweater._

_Standing over her desk, trying to force the words out of his mouth as they lodged in his throat like razors. Asking a question he's fucking terrified to know the answer to, "What happened in the basement?" She won't look at him, and it's the damage he can't see that scares him most._

She can't die tonight. Not after everything they'd been through, not for him, not _again_.

Olivia saw him, paused, ran forward, and _goddamn it_ this couldn't be happening again.

Elliot screamed until his throat was raw, then screamed a little harder.

Her hair tossed behind her as she threw herself forward.

That concern in her eyes, oblivious to the body on the ground and the danger tainting the air around them. She wouldn't listen, because she could no longer hear the words in his silence.

Sweat and blood seeped through his shirt. The cuts on his chest stung like hell, but it was the dread that was unbearable. Elliot clenched his eyes shut.

A warm hand landed on top of his and he jerked back in surprise, eyes snapping open to meet Olivia's.

"El, it's okay, I'm going to get you out of here."

Something was wrong. She shouldn't be so close. He'd never touched her before, never reached her in time.

Tension wound tighter in his stomach.

She ripped the duct tape off his mouth and knelt, carefully peeling back the tape pinning his wrists to the arms of the chair.

Cold air met his lungs as he sucked in a deep, unrestrained breath and violent coughing overtook him at the shock.

Her gun wasn't in her hand or its holster, and its sudden absence sent him further into panic. He tried to alert her to this but for a terrifying moment no words could push past his throat.

Rasping, he warned her, "Liv, he's here, he's still here, you gotta—"

"Shh." She brought a finger to her lips. "Elliot, you've got to calm down," she whispered urgently.

The hell he would. Elliot wrenched the rest of the tape off his right wrist, grabbed her shoulders, and lifted her off the floor to stand with him.

"Damn it Olivia, you don't understand—"

"Everything's going to be all right. There's nobody else here."

"No, _Stuckey_, he—"

"Were you drugged?" Olivia looked him over suspiciously. "Are you hurt anywhere else?" She fingered the buttons of his torn shirt gently, and he narrowed his eyes.

She was so _calm_, moving so fucking slowly.

Olivia smiled easily, apparently amused by his obvious distress and he barely suppressed the urge to shake her. He couldn't comprehend her nonchalance, why she was looking at him as though _he_ had lost his mind—but it didn't matter. He had to get her out. Then maybe she'd be right, maybe they'd be okay. If she just had her gun he could—

She placed a hand on his cheek to hold his attention. "El," Olivia said patiently, "it's just us. Everything will be fine, I promise," she repeated, voice laced with certainty.

She didn't understand.

He'd resort to begging her if that's what it would take to get her to listen.

"Liv, _please_, we have to get out of here _now_."

Olivia considered him for a moment, nodded in acquiescence, and turned away.

She fell back against him before he even registered the blast.

His hands shot out to catch her automatically and her body fell limp and heavy into his arms. The air tore out of his lungs. He sank to his knees, bringing her with him, ready to cover her if more shots were fired, already strategizing and planning through the all consuming panic.

He could see no shooter in the room, no movement in the shadows, only her elusive gun resting quietly on the ground beside her. The shot had seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, but there was no time to hunt for a suspect with her bleeding out on the floor. He could feel the dampness spreading onto his left thigh where she was slumped against him and his stomach plummeted.

Elliot quickly lowered her all the way to the ground, resting her head down carefully as it lolled to one side.

"Liv," he demanded, shaking her firmly.

She didn't respond. If he could just wake her up, keep her responsive, get her to an ambulance, someone had to notice they were missing, had to have heard the shot, if they could just wait it out...

His fingers sought out the pulse point on her neck. Nothing. Her heart had stopped, so had his, and this was wrong. He reached her this time, he had her in his arms, he could stop this, and she said, damn it, she _said_ everything would be all right, she_ promised_.

"Olivia!" he yelled at her now, and fuck it if the shooter heard and came back, she would listen to him this time, she would fucking _listen_.

His hands shook with adrenaline as he pushed her jacket out of the way to assess the wound and he fought to steady his breathing.

She was strong, he knew. She'd fight this. She'd be all right.

Elliot ripped her shirt open down the front, moving it out of the way and pressed both hands tight against her skin.

She was so pale. He couldn't look directly at her.

He applied more pressure, dizzily letting murmurs and reassurances fall from his lips, trying to determine if CPR would do more harm than good with a bullet lodged in her chest.

Her skin seemed to burn under his frozen hands and the blood had stopped flowing, now pooling warmly between his fingers. Elliot's throat burned and he pushed the nausea down.

They'd been here before, he knew. So many times, in so many places. Only it was normally her hands pressing into him, her voice straining to keep his concentration. It was Olivia that got them out and safe and made sure he saw his kids again.

Her eyes were closed, but her head was tilted toward him and he was overcome by the need to wake her up. He needed to ask her. She would know what to do.

He leaned close, fitting the palm of his left hand against the curve of her jaw, and whispered endless variations of her name to rouse her.

He couldn't remember the last time he had touched her like this, or seen her so still, if he ever had, and he knew she'd kick his ass for it when she woke up. The corners of his mouth lifted at the thought. She'd call him on his sentimental bullshit and laugh and tease and never let him live it down.

He brushed his thumb across her lips guiltily and frowned, shaken abruptly by the line of red that appeared there.

He sought the source in confusion, scanning quickly for overlooked injuries.

And there it was.

Her blood on his hands.

His mind reeled as the tide sucked him back in, drowning him in the undertow.

Elliot could still feel the warmth on his hands when his eyes finally opened to the darkness of the crib. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't think straight, and this was all becoming too familiar an occurrence now.

He stared at the barely illuminated metal slats of the bed above him while his body came down from the adrenaline, trying to will the images out of his head. His heart slowed, but the shivering was quickly replaced with nausea.

He clenched his hands into fists at his sides, frustrated at his lack of control. The anger that usually held him together was disgustingly absent tonight. No rage ran comfortingly through his veins, only a sick and empty kind of resignation.

He couldn't keep doing this. Couldn't keep reliving something that hadn't even happened, and fuck his brain for taking him there every goddamn time he closed his eyes.

Seeing Olivia alive and breathing in the squad room did none of what it should have to calm him. He couldn't even look at her without seeing her falling and fading in front of him.

Elliot sat up, agitated, swinging his legs over the edge of the cot and resting his head in his hands.

The air was frigid and stale. A digital clock above the door flashed neon blue light across floor, tormenting him. The numbers danced there, announcing the ungodly hour and assuring him that he'd never get a full night's rest again.

And fuck it. Sleeplessness would be more restful than this continuous hell. He hadn't had recurring nightmares like this since his father died. Even in his dreams the bastard had berated him for his failures, his weakness.

Elliot shut his eyes and scrubbed his face roughly, wanting to be anywhere but here and unable to think of any viable alternatives. His resolve never to sleep again had lasted all of thirty-six hours under the weight of exhaustion and the monotony of paperwork.

He held his hands out in front of him, absurdly apprehensive for a moment at the thought of opening his eyes and seeing blood there. The darkness made it difficult to tell, and with his mind already geared to screw with him, he could almost see the slick shine of it coating his fingers.

He didn't know what to do, and the admission irritated the hell out of him. He couldn't live like this. There had to be an answer. Some way to just make it fucking _stop_.

His mind raced at the possibilities, immediately disregarding talking, therapy, pills, or any acknowledgement of weakness because, goddamn it, he wasn't a scared little boy anymore.

He lingered at the idea of visiting Rikers and beating the hell out of Stuckey—or beating the hell out of anything really—and though tempting, it was hardly ever as effective as he hoped.

The clock continued to flash, his head continued to spin, and gradually he realised that his previous conclusion had been right.

He needed to ask her. She would know what to do.

* * *


	4. Brothers on a Hotel Bed: Death Cab

**Title:** Bound  
**Chapter:** 4/6  
**Author:** Scarlet  
**Characters:** Elliot/Olivia  
**Rating/Warnings:** FRM (graphic violence, angst, language, and dark themes), spoilers for everything up to and including 10.22 'Zebras'  
**Word Count:** 2124  
**Summary:** He had lost her too many times to let her go now. Another post-ep for Zebras, because you really can't have too much of a good thing. E/O.  
_Bound: Obligated, resolved, determined, destined, restrained, compelled._  
**A/N:** An early update in honor of the holiday, and because I am so enjoying this fandom! Happy Halloween everyone. Concrit is gleefully welcome, as always.

* * *

It was the kitchen faucet that set her off.

_Drip, drip, drip._ It was incessant. Maintenance couldn't be bothered to fix the damn thing and no matter how hard she cranked the handle, it just kept _leaking_.

She leaned against the island with her arms crossed and watched the water slowly fall, drop by drop, mirroring the surge of rain pounding the streets of New York.

It clanged as it hit the sink. _Drip, clang, drip, clang,_ and she just couldn't fucking take it anymore.

Lightning lit up the night sky beyond her windows, illuminating the city below and all the things best left unlit.

She grabbed a nearly dead plant from a windowsill and shoved it under the dripping faucet. An ancient piece of spaghetti that had fused to the knife block caught her attention.

The place was a mess, dusty, dishes piled up. She couldn't remember the last time she'd cleaned the counters or mopped.

Olivia barely noticed the disorder anymore.

She surveyed the neglected kitchen with dismay, wondering how she had let it all get this bad.

Her mind was too full lately, always spinning, always straying. She couldn't deal with this now, not right now.

She tried to push her aggravation down, tried not to be bothered by the layer of dust now coating her fingertips from the windowsill, or the nagging acknowledgement that her partner had hardly said two words to her since her carelessness had once again compromised her ability to do her job.

She reached into a cupboard absently, seeking out a clean mug and coming into contact with a long forgotten bottle of bourbon.

She fingered the thick diamond-carved glass, considering what oblivion the amber liquid could offer.

Sleep was unlikely tonight. Her too-empty bed hadn't been slept in for weeks, and the couch lacked the appeal it normally held. It didn't matter anyway. Sleep was rarely restful.

Opening the bottle and foregoing the pleasantries of a tumbler, she let the oaky liquid rest idly on her tongue.

It burned pleasantly, but the taste was always bitter going down. She wasn't her mother, after all. And that had to count for something.

She dropped the open bottle into the sink, letting the bourbon run in rich, syrupy rivers down the drain. Fuck it. The plant was beyond help anyway.

The faucet resumed its pace.

It was the cupboards that were the problem, really. Cluttered. Dusty.

She'd let it all go for too long and now, unable and unwilling to sleep in the middle of the night, it was as good a time as any to do something about it.

She pulled herself onto the counter and started ripping objects off the top shelf, tossing them onto the counter and working her way down. If she could just get them clean, at least she'd have a place to start, at least she'd have something to occupy her hands.

She could think clearly again, in a clean apartment.

Maybe then she could breathe. Just goddamn _breathe, _without feeling as though the world would fall apart.

_Drip, clang, drip, clang._

It just needed to be clean, structured.

But that was always her problem, forever busting down doors yet always trying to impose order on the chaos and unable to cope with the inevitable breakdown.

She had a problem with boundaries. She understood this in a distant sort of way.

Where others tore them down, she compulsively built them up until she was suffocating in the confinement of them, because that seemed to be the only comfortable way to breathe.

A piece of Tupperware hit the counter, bouncing off onto the floor with a resounding, hollow thud.

Boundaries. What a lie those were. Just when she needed to rely on them, they fell to pieces at her feet.

Of course he couldn't stand to be around her. She was reckless, out of control. And now Elliot could see it in her. He could see how she'd changed. How far she'd let herself fall.

It should never have happened. She should never have lost control.

The confrontation with Dale had caught her off guard. She hadn't been prepared, hadn't seen it coming in time, and she'd let the chaos in her slip out that night.

She knew she'd gone too far. She saw the line as she was crossing it and there was nothing she could do to hold herself back, nothing could break her momentum. Nothing could excuse her.

There was no going back from that.

She was _fine_ now. Better, at least.

A flash of light in her eyes no longer made her stomach drop. She hardly even dreamed about Sealview anymore, really. Much less than before.

She was doing well, doing all the right things, going to therapy, moving on, but this... Every step forward seemed to foreshadow two very large steps back, and out of nowhere she'd be back in that basement, listening to the clatter of Harris' baton moving closer, closer, _closer. _

The glass handle of a mug broke off as she threw it down, harder than necessary. Olivia was unfazed. A sugar dish followed.

Olivia could pinpoint each fleeting moment that she let her control slip just a little bit further in the lab, more and more until there wasn't a damn thing left to restrain her. Looking back, it was disgustingly obvious. She could have made a hundred different choices, and instead she let her loss of perspective infect her decisions.

Harris won after all. And she had let him.

That sonofabitch was nothing. _Nothing_.

All the perps and victims and lost colleagues and general fucked up shit she endured, and it was _him _who had pushed her over the edge. She hadn't even noticed the fall until she was too far down to catch herself.

It made her sick to think of how little it had taken. How quick she was to succumb to a complete breakdown. And over what?

She knew the stats, the psychology, the lines fed to her over and over; the same lines she offered to others and wholeheartedly believed. But no matter how intellectually she understood it, no matter how much sense she gathered on the good days, she still felt like a bystander in her own life. Unable to truly comprehend how years of strength and fighting had culminated so suddenly to facilitate her own downfall.

She knew, _she knew_, it wasn't true, but she couldn't shake the feeling that this was something she allowed. Something within her ability to control. And maybe that was it. Maybe she had let him win.

Elliot could have died because of her. Right in front of her.

She could see it play out over and over again in her head. Everything she could have done differently. Everything that could have gone wrong.

The image of Cooper putting a gun to her head and blowing her brains across the wall still haunted her, and her stunningly vivid imagination was all too willing to offer up suggestions of how brutal her partner's murder could have been.

Luck and circumstance allowed them to walk away. The way she reacted, she may as well have pulled the trigger herself.

The moment she saw Elliot, bloody and bound, a staggering flood of adrenaline rushed through her. And Ryan— oh god, Ryan.

Everything started to spin, and all her progress, all those months of effort just washed away.

Anger pulsed in her veins like a familiar poison, urging her on, and the clarity carried with it was intoxicating. She was invincible, unstoppable. She could fly.

Every word that fell from her mouth with the gun trained on her had felt so perfectly weighed, as though she were destined to play this role, and it was all too easy to pretend.

Persephone. Katrina. It was always with the same ease she slipped into someone else's skin, and every goddamn time it was the aftermath that was the hardest thing to bear.

She was focused in a way she hadn't been for months, _disarm the suspect, secure the weapon, get Elliot out alive_.

Dale was just a kid. Lanky and insecure. So damn easy to manipulate that the weapon in his hand seemed like a joke.

The lucidity of her thoughts astounded her, but as she held him in the palm of her hand, naive and malleable, she realised that it was the control that intoxicated her.

She clung to it. Breathed it in. Let it consume her.

The knowledge that they could both die—that a gun was a gun no matter whose hands it was in—was her driving force.

But in the moment she didn't fully consider it. Didn't really believe that something so tiny as a bullet could make her bleed, and wouldn't it be interesting to find out? She couldn't possibly die when she was barely even living.

She held Dale's hand in hers, running with the momentum she had built, then he turned the gun on Elliot and everything came crashing to a stop.

She felt the familiar sensation of grasping at control, felt it run through her fingers like sand, and suddenly the clarity seemed false and empty. She wanted it back.

_I want him to watch._

She wanted him to hurt.

Just to feel a fraction of what she did, just so he could _understand_.

Their relationship had been the closest thing to intimacy she'd ever known and in the frenzy of her descent she wanted, _needed_ him to see what she had become.

She was never this person.

She used her sexuality as a weapon, seduced a suspect, touched him, put her hands and her mouth on him and god, she didn't feel anything.

Elliot watched her from the sidelines, unreadable, and she could have died at the implications of that.

Finally, after eleven years of partnership, she couldn't read him. She'd strayed too far, lost some intangible part of herself, and maybe that meant she'd lost him too.

After the adrenaline wore off and the weight of everything she had just done came crashing into her, she couldn't believe she had been so stupid. She had no self-control. None. And it was just so goddamn obvious to him now.

Ultimately, they both knew she was the one that believed she had nothing to lose but him, and she was willing to sacrifice whatever it took to keep that. Even herself.

He could never trust her after this. Not like before. He had barely spoken to her in days. God, he couldn't even _look_ at her.

She slammed a ceramic bowl on the counter and pushed a loose strand of hair from her eyes.

A familiar restlessness burned in her muscles, pulling at her thoughts.

She knew she had to leave this time.

She was poisonous. A liability. To him. To the squad.

It would be so much easier if she could trust someone else to look out for him, but god, he was such an idiot sometimes. Someone had to have his back when he got himself into a situation that he couldn't get out of.

_You think that you're the only one whose life is hell because of this prick?_

He'd have to take his chances with a new partner. She had no fucking right to be in this line of work, carrying a shield, serving and protecting. Not when she couldn't even protect herself.

She was reckless. An imposter. Elliot could see right through her.

She tried to convince herself that two years ago, she would have handled the situation professionally. Her sexuality would have been the last thing to come to mind as a weapon. That she would never have lashed out, or intentionally hurt him, or lost control so completely. But maybe that wasn't true. Maybe this was just the final culmination of a gradual descent.

But she didn't regret it, she _didn't_.

Not when he was sitting there across from her at the precinct, breathing and brooding and just _being_. Not when his kids got to see their dad at the end of the day. No. She couldn't regret that, and fuck him if he couldn't understand.

The cupboard was bare, the floor and counters now littered with its contents.

She didn't know where to go from here. This felt like an end.

She couldn't do this now. Not right now.

Olivia drifted from the wreckage she created, and stood in front of the dark window of her living room, looking out at the city. The cold glass fogged with her exhales as she stared at her rain-washed reflection, pressing a hand against the cool surface and feeling the thud of raindrops fighting to break through.

She wasn't who she used to be.

* * *


	5. Ungodly Hour: The Fray

**Title:** Bound  
**Chapter:** 5/6  
**Author:** Scarlet  
**Characters:** Elliot/Olivia  
**Rating/Warnings:** FRM (graphic violence, angst, language, and dark themes), spoilers for everything up to and including 10.22 'Zebras'  
**Word Count:** 2880  
**Summary:** He had lost her too many times to let her go now. Another post-ep for Zebras, because you really can't have too much of a good thing. E/O.  
_Bound: Obligated, resolved, determined, destined, restrained, compelled._

**A/N:** The plot, it thickens. And the end is near. A huge thanks to my faithful reviewers, I appreciate the support and would love to know if you see any areas for improvement.

* * *

The hems of his jeans were soaked and heavy with rain by the time he reached the entrance to her apartment building.

Beads of water ran off his jacket, trailing down the sleeves in small torrents. The storm was escalating, fierce and powerful. Elliot breathed it in.

The idea of waking her seemed less and less appealing the more he thought about how petty his complaints would sound if he voiced them. She'd be sleeping fitfully in her bed, and in his brilliance he would disturb her to ask for advice. Jesus, he really was a prick. She probably didn't even want to see him.

He shuffled his feet restlessly, staring at the call button for her apartment. Exhaustion gnawed at him.

But she would know. He knew she had nightmares. She was always too tired, too quiet. She would understand. And if he knew her as well has he thought he did, she might even still be awake. She usually was.

If he could just see her, just for a second, maybe that would be enough. They didn't even have to talk.

She answered only moments after he pressed the button.

Her voice was clear and crisp through the static. Familiar.

"It's me," he offered.

He should have called first. Or waited until morning. Goddamnit, he was such a bastard sometimes. It was too late to walk away now.

A sharp beep and the faint click of the lock on the door was the only reply he received.

Just for a second, and then he would leave.

He could lie about why he came here. Say it was the storm, he thought she might want some company, and hey, nothing like an early start to the day.

She opened her door before he knocked, leaning against the frame in jeans and a sweater, alert and clearly waiting for an explanation.

He was right. She was always awake.

"Elliot," she prompted. "What's going on?"

He considered her question; his options.

"Couldn't sleep," he answered honestly.

Maybe this was a mistake.

She shifted away from the doorframe, silently permitting him entrance. "So you thought you'd make sure I couldn't either?"

Somehow the irritation in her voice had been lost on him until now.

He must have pissed her off somewhere between the precinct and standing in her apartment. Maybe before that. Maybe he's never really stopped pissing her off.

Her anger ignites his own and he can't think about the fucked up way his body recognizes that feeling, likes it, clings to it a little.

"What do you want, El? I'm kind of busy." She gestured toward a mess of displaced objects concentrated in her kitchen, without glancing back.

Olivia pushed the door shut behind him.

It slipped out before he could stop himself, "You going somewhere?" And Christ, was he so goddamned dependant that this was the first place his mind went, that he automatically felt betrayed and indignant at the thought?

She stopped abruptly and stared, as shocked as he was as the implications of his words stirred around them.

The question always rested on his lips, unposed but implied with every insecure glance across his desk to hers; _will you run again?_

"Should I be?" There was an edge to her voice that called to him. A challenge.

He could feel himself start to spiral.

Maybe she should. Maybe this was all just too fucking much for any two people to handle.

But the last time had proven that distance didn't do a damned thing to ease the velocity or intensity of the combustion that they brought to each other's lives. Fire and oxygen held a destructive balance, and he wasn't quite sure which he'd be in that analogy, but at the end of the day he was a selfish bastard and he _needed_ her to stay.

Silence stretched heavily between them while he tried to find a way to say _don't even fucking think about leaving again,_ that didn't sound possessive or pathetic. There wasn't one. He had no words anymore.

Olivia shook her head, allowing the moment to pass. "I was, uh," she sighed, "cleaning. Before you came. Why are you _here,_ Elliot?"

He didn't know anymore, really. Yet it had seemed like a perfectly reasonable idea to show up at his partner's apartment at three in the morning only moments ago, without even calling or—

"You want an apology? Is that it?" Her voice was low, as rough as his throat felt, and she couldn't seem to stop herself from continuing, "Screw you, El. I'm not goddamn sorry."

He could smell the slightest trace of alcohol in her apartment. Fleeting, but heavy. Whiskey, probably. Maybe bourbon. She didn't seem drunk, but she wasn't making any sense.

"Olivia—"

She wouldn't be deterred.

"What would you have done if I didn't show up? Huh? Your wife and kids would be burying you right now. _I'd_ be burying my partner. I did what I had to do to get us both out, and I will _not_ fucking apologise for that."

It seemed to spill out of her, backed by a mounting internal pressure and for a moment he couldn't believe that she would think he came here for that. That she really thought so fucking lowly of him, of herself, that it was even a question that she did the right thing.

"I didn't ask you to," he ground out slowly.

"Then what the hell do you _want_ from me, Elliot?"

She sounded so tired lately and somehow that pissed him off even more. It wasn't _her_, she never gave in, never backed down, and he sure as hell wasn't going to let her start.

A harsh laugh fell from lips and he couldn't suppress the swell of resentment in his chest. "What do I _want_?" he repeated incredulously, voice barely rising above a whisper.

He wanted to shake her. Touch her. Breathe her in.

But he wanted a lot of things.

"I didn't come here to argue with you," Elliot deflected. He couldn't seem to remember why he came, but this sure as hell wasn't it.

He ran a hand over his jaw absently, working the tense muscles there. Her eyes followed the movement fixatedly and that's when he realised that she had probably been obsessing over this for days. Questioning every movement. Doubting every decision. Examining every possible outcome. Christ. He should have known.

"Fine," she responded distantly.

No. It fucking wasn't _fine_.

"You wanna talk about this, Liv, we'll talk. You think I would come here for an apology? I was there, Olivia, I understand the consequences of being in a volatile situation with an armed psychopath. I'm not new at this. I _know_ what could have happened. I know how fucking close we came. And god, you act like it just... You wanna know what I _want_?"

He hadn't realised how angry he was at her, and the awareness took him by surprise.

He pointed at her accusingly, his voice lowering an octave as gravel clogged in his throat, "I want to know that when shit like that goes down, you aren't going stare down the barrel of a gun like it's some fucking _game_. I'm sick and goddamned tired of watching you self-destruct, Olivia. Of you using yourself like it doesn't matter, like you've got _nothing_ to lose."

She looked so lost.

"What do I have to lose, Elliot?"

Her expression caught him off guard and he could see her suddenly, wide eyes, falling to her knees, blood pooling on a dirty floor. Watching her fade away as gunshots ring in his ears, sharp and piercing. He could smell the powder, taste it on his tongue, and it was all too much.

He clenched his eyes shut at the onslaught of images.

"No." Fuck this. Elliot shook his head vehemently. "No, you don't get to say that Liv, don't you fucking dare say that. You have everything, _everything_ to lose. And you just... you just..."

He doesn't know how to save her.

He has never known.

She just keeps slipping away as he watches, and, god, he can't watch this anymore.

She stared at him blankly, unmoving, unreachable, and it scared the shit out of him. He resorted to the only thing he's always known how to do: incite her.

"What the hell is your problem, Liv? You think that this whole martyr complex you've got going will get you sainted, that there will be parades held in your honor? Are you really that conceited?"

He could see the spark of anger flash in her eyes.

"Fuck you, Elliot."

And there she is.

He couldn't stop himself. Everything unsaid was suddenly bubbling to the surface, spilling over and threatening to consume, even as they drowned in it.

There was no other way out but through.

"What will you do when there's nothing left to give, Olivia? How much more will you sacrifice for this job?" And he knows. He knows she'd sacrifice everything she has, herself, whatever it took, and goddamn her for that.

She laughs, and the coldness chills him. "Where the hell do you get off questioning my self-preservation instinct? You're the one with the death wish—I swear to god Elliot, I left you alone for five minutes and you managed to piss someone off enough to tie you up and take a fucking knife to you. And you think you have the right to come here and accuse _me_ of being self-sacrificing? " She paused and the words emptied out of her like a long-held accusation, "You could have _died_."

_She_ could have died. In front of him. Because of him. She doesn't seem to understand the gravity of that, and it irritates the hell out of him that she's chosen to focus on minor details over the bigger picture.

She needed to understand, she needed to just fucking listen for once.

"I can take care of myself," he countered sharply.

"Can you? Because this seems to be a running theme with you El, and yet every goddamn time I end up saving your ass."

It occurred to him vaguely that they've had this conversation before, but she's right, she's always _there_ and he can feel that familiar dread wash through him, because she's about to realise that he _isn't_.

A weight settled in his chest and the lacerations there seemed to burn.

"...even think about them anymore? What would they do if you didn't come home after shift?"

She's about to see what a useless piece of shit he is and how hopelessly inadequate his abilities as a partner are. She deserved better.

But he knew it would come to this. He _knew_.

"...and again, and again—I don't understand where your priorities are and to be honest, I don't even think you—"

He wasn't there. He wasn't _there_. And goddamn it, there were no excuses for that.

If he'd have just had her back like he was supposed to, everything would have turned out differently, he'd have never let Harris or any other dirtbag get her alone, _never_.

He'd have killed that sonofabitch with his bare hands, ripped him apart like an animal just for fucking looking at her, and he'd have taken immense pleasure in causing him pain.

"...what I was thinking when I saw you there, and the blood, Christ, I didn't even—"

But he wasn't _there_.

He never reached her in time.

She had been alone, and instead of doing his job, he was left to imagine the hell she went through while he sat at his desk in the precinct with Olivia's empty seat across from him, miles and miles away from where he needed to be.

That look in her eyes, the false calm in her posture, the way she jumped if anyone so much as brushed against her for months afterward—if _he_ brushed against her...That was his _fault_, and it was only a matter of time before she figured that out.

"...are you even listening to me?"

He failed her. He failed.

"El?"

"What was it with Stuckey, Liv?" His eyes narrowed as the words cut up his throat in their frenzy to escape, and he swallowed down the bitter taste. "_I want you to watch_? What the hell was that? Were you just trying to fuck with him? With me? Did you get off on the power trip?" He could feel it spread through his chest. He was burning up from the inside out. Everything burned. "Or did you just want someone to touch you, Olivia, was that it?"

A sadistic sense of triumph pulsed through his veins, only to evaporate as his words hit the cold air; hit her.

She blanched. "You think I..." her voice broke off and the room seemed emptier than before.

The anger that coloured her tone, the abject horror that flashed across her face in that brief moment, all suddenly and unexpectedly drained away.

She straightened. The air seemed to still as her rushed breathing shifted seamlessly into evenly regulated inhales and exhales.

Elliot recognised it immediately, almost innately. Olivia had shut him out; or locked herself in.

If he hadn't known her so well, for so long, he would have believed the stillness was legitimate. He would have accepted the complete lack of emotion visible in her face as apathy, or resignation, or even carefully controlled rage. But Elliot could see her hands shaking even as they hung loosely at her sides.

Maybe this was it. Maybe he had finally managed to fuck up the only solid thing he had left. Finally pushed her too far, too hard. Finally been the one to break her after all.

"Get out," she whispered.

God, no. This was wrong. This was all wrong. "Liv, I didn't—"

"Go home, Elliot. Just go _home_."

She always wanted him home more than he was welcome to be there. He was beginning to understand why.

Olivia stared past him.

She would leave him now.

Hell, she had already started packing. She _wanted_ to leave.

Maybe she would be better off. They were too damn close to have any perspective, that was always the problem, and neither one could seem to do anything to stop it.

He would go into work and she wouldn't be there. He'd bring her a cup of tea in the morning and it would go cold on her desk and sit there for days and days until someone finally threw it away. Another warm body would take her place, but never manage to fill it. He wondered what would remain.

This could be the last time he sees her, he realises. The last time they speak. But there is nothing he can say now. Maybe words were the problem after all, not the solution. No words could remedy how far they had fallen, or tie the pieces back together.

Elliot left his apology in the silence.

His body moved, muscles aching and heavy. He walked away from her and closed the door behind him, trying to remember why he came here. How this all came to be.

He hurt her intentionally, he recognises.

Maybe she really had been trying to do the same with Stuckey. Strange how such complication seemed to follow them. Stranger still that he hadn't realised her regret sooner, when regret and Olivia were both so intimately familiar to him.

By the time he reached the eleventh step, the shame and desperation had finally caught up to him.

He took advantage of her trust in him to allow himself a moment of petty retribution. He left her thinking that he didn't trust her, didn't _respect_ her, when she was one of the only people he ever really had.

The carpeted floor ended and his boots met the hard, checkered tile of the tiny lobby.

Elliot considered the storm now raging outside and took a seat at the bottom of the stairwell.

Wind lashed at the building, but the strong walls held it at bay. Unfortunately, they could not protect from what was invited in.

The dim sconce above him flickered once, twice, and then died completely, leaving him alone in the dark.

Rain slid in heavy rivulets down the wired glass, collecting light from passing cars and spreading it in distorted patterns across the lobby floor. He realised that, with the power out, Olivia would be sitting in the dark too.

Elliot sighed, rubbing the heels of his palms into his temples. He was tired. So, so _tired_.

He thought about regret. The weight of it. And maybe, _maybe_, there was something more to living than labouring under it. Maybe it was time to put it all to rest.

He doesn't deserve her, but he wonders if he is selfish enough to want to keep her here.

She's something indefinable, untamed, essential.

Elliot is no longer the pillar of strength and resistance that he once was. That pillar had crumbled long ago, worn down by time and strain. He isn't strong enough to hold her up. But he knew he couldn't let her fall, either.

They could crash and burn together, and maybe that would be enough.

He had lost her too many times to let her go now.

* * *


	6. Colorblind: Counting Crows

**Title:** Bound  
**Chapter:** 6/6  
**Author:** Scarlet  
**Characters:** Elliot/Olivia  
**Rating/Warnings:** FRM (graphic violence, angst, language, and dark themes), spoilers for everything up to and including 10.22 'Zebras'  
**Word Count:** 1945  
**Summary:** He had lost her too many times to let her go now. Another post-ep for Zebras, because you really can't have too much of a good thing. E/O.  
_Bound: Obligated, resolved, determined, destined, restrained, compelled._

**A/N:** Well here it is, the last chapter. I'm a nervous wreck about it. It's shorter than I had expected it to be, but my beta assures me that 'filler is filler' so I hope this final instalment will provide a satisfying resolution to the story (if anything between Liv and El can even be considered _resolved_). It has been a pleasure to write for all of you, and your support and encouragement has been completely mind-blowing and wonderful, thank you so much! As always, feedback and concrit are gleefully welcome and I hope you enjoy this chapter!

* * *

Something in her shattered.

Olivia sank into the couch behind her, trying to breathe past the hand around her throat without panicking until she was light-headed and dizzy from the effort.

She held her breath, but it was too late. She was crumbling and there was nothing to hold her back.

There was nothing left but the burning, consuming anger dancing across her skin and through her mind and, god, the loss.

She struggled under the weight of it as her thoughts fluttered around, noticing a discarded colander on the floor, bits of broken glass, and wondering why she hadn't cleaned that up, why this room was so damn cold when everything else burned.

She couldn't break down, not here, not now. It was selfish. It was a weakness that she could not afford, not even when she was alone; not with this job and everything resting on her ability to keep it together under pressure.

The urge to run was overwhelming. It pulsed through her, pushed and pulled and demanded until she wanted to scream that, goddamn it, there was nowhere, nothing, to run to.

Her body didn't care about practicality. It wanted results. Her muscles tensed and locked with every shuddering inhalation, her heart hammering in her chest, tearing her apart.

_Run_ chorused in her head, but she couldn't move, couldn't breathe, could only fall as the anger gave way beneath her and only loss remained. She could feel it twisting in her chest, trapped there and fighting to break out of its cage.

He had seen through her, he saw _everything_ in her. Everything she had become.

She was caught, exposed, and whatever doubt Olivia had held before was ripped away, because now she could no longer pretend to be someone she wasn't. She could no longer pretend to be indestructible while she fell apart in an apartment as empty as its occupant.

Her body betrayed her as she tried vainly, desperately, not to break apart.

Olivia wanted to believe that this was unexpected, just a course of events that had overwhelmed her without warning, but that was a lie. She had seen this coming for a long time. The unavoidable breakdown, the dissolution. She had expected the crash, but she was hopelessly unprepared for the impact.

Their partnership had survived so much worse. Somehow this was different, and she could no longer deny that. Everything had changed, inevitably. She'd been standing still for too long, watching the world rush by without her, and finally it had all caught up.

She tells herself that she has no history, no real foundation, just miles and miles of empty space. Yet all she ever seemed to do is look back on it.

She needed something else to fill her.

Olivia was compelled to move forward but didn't know how, and the uncertainty immobilized her. She didn't belong here anymore. Maybe she had never really belonged.

She dropped her head into her hands, leaning forward and trying to convince herself that it was okay, everything would work out, this was for the best, it was time, she was fine, she was _fine_. She could start again, a thousand miles away, be someone else. But she didn't know how to walk away. She had never known.

The kitchen light cut out abruptly, along with the hum of the refrigerator and the green numbers of the clock in her stove. Time seemed to have ceased without its keeper, and for an instant she was caught up in the peculiar sensation of it, lost in darkness and the constant rhythm of rain pounding against her window.

She wondered how long she could stay here, before even the shadows cast her out.

Shades of grey surrounded her, engulfed her. She was suffocating in them. Drowning. There was no way out, she couldn't think, couldn't see, couldn't possibly move without falling further into—

The click of the door handle broke through the haze she had enveloped herself in and Olivia was paralysed. The small noise was thunderous in her quiet apartment.

She was meticulous about locking her door, but now she couldn't quite remember placing her hand on the cold metal and rotating it clockwise two times or pulling the silver chain across the door. Maybe she hadn't.

Her breath caught in her throat, as though denying herself air could keep time from moving forward. It had never worked before. Not even when her mother would speed down winding roads with a bottle of vodka in her hand, or when the clock counted down on another life they wouldn't reach in time. Still Olivia could not help but try.

Tentatively, she glanced up.

The door slowly closed, quieter this time. So quiet that maybe it hadn't even been opened in the first place.

Olivia could just make out the hard lines of his shoulders through the darkness. She could recognise him effortlessly, intuitively. Something about the air surrounding him was different from anyone else. Heavier. Commanding. Captivating.

He couldn't see her like this, not now, not after she'd tried so goddamn hard for so long to keep it together. She could feel the burning rush of shame and embarrassment spreading through her, but she pushed it down.

He was a shadow. Nothing more.

It wasn't real, Olivia acknowledged. He wasn't really here. He couldn't really be here. She _knew_ this.

She had lost her mind completely, just fallen headfirst down that rabbit hole, and maybe it was for the best. Maybe she would finally belong somewhere.

The shadow paused, perfectly still and calculating, and for a moment she could pretend that there was no shadow at all. He moved forward gradually and she watched him cautiously, eyes slowly taking in the familiar ridge of his brow, the curve of his neck.

Olivia could feel every heavy step slam into her as he moved closer, closer, _closer_. Too close to ignore, and her heart raced instinctively.

He knelt in front of her, knees brushing against her feet, and pushed his hands into the couch on either side of her. She could feel the heat rolling off his skin, pressing in on her, and it was all too real.

She clenched her eyes shut against the darkness, willing him to leave, praying that he'd stay.

A soft noise escaped him, a whisper, but there was no more room for words in her and she didn't understand.

She didn't understand anything anymore.

There were only broken consonants and twisted vowels, strung haphazardly together and falling out of him, losing their meaning before they even had a chance to form.

He said it again, this time more forcefully, and slowly she recognised the words as the sound took shape: _"Breathe."_

God, if only it were that easy.

He closed the distance between them like it never existed, as though they hadn't been cultivating it for years and years, and pressed his warm hand against her cheek. It fit the line of her jaw seamlessly and he held it there, the strange gesture keeping her still even as her mind spun from the novelty of it.

Distantly Olivia noticed that she could not feel the warm metal of his ring against her skin, and her stomach dropped. When she'd told him to go home, she hadn't realised that he had nowhere to run to either.

The rough pad of his thumb brushed across her cheekbone and she choked on the unexpected exhale it evoked.

Elliot sighed audibly, his right hand pushing errant strands of hair behind her left ear as he leaned forward, resting his forehead lightly against hers.

His breath danced warmly across her skin and she could just smell the subtle undercurrent of his cologne, a hint of coffee, and cotton mixed with rain.

"Don't leave." Words continued to empty out of him, stumbling over each other in their attempt to escape, "Stay... Fuck, just—please, stay."

The fear and desperation in the strained cadence of his voice shook her.

She couldn't speak, couldn't even risk opening her eyes as he shifted away from her, one hand remaining against her jaw.

His dry lips pressed against her temple, lingered, and left her skin warm in their departure.

She remembered the night El got shot, just before everything went to hell, when she pressed her body against his and ran her hands across his skin. It had been so _easy_. So much easier than she anticipated to cross that line, to abandon all those carefully constructed physical boundaries, and that scared the hell out of her.

Her fingers tightly griped the fabric of the comforter on the couch underneath her, to restrain herself from reaching out to touch him.

She didn't want him to disappear, and she couldn't shake the feeling that her hands would contact nothing but air if they sought him out.

It would be so much worse to _know_.

"You could have died," he told her quietly, almost to himself, and this time she did not correct him.

His lips moved to her cheek as he held tightly onto her, as though afraid she'd run if he gave her the opportunity. Olivia didn't even think she could stand. He was too close, there wasn't enough air left in this apartment, she'd used it all up, and the lack was making her lightheaded.

She wondered if this was an apology. If that was all it was. And for a moment she pretended that anything between them could be so simple.

His breathing was ragged, or perhaps it was her own, and his thumb continued tracing patterns across her cheekbone, writing on her skin everything they couldn't manage to say.

Olivia leaned almost imperceptibly into his touch, despite herself. She wondered what the salt on his skin would taste like, if she'd ever have the chance to find out.

Restraint was something she used to have.

The stubble on his jaw grazed her skin as he dipped his head slightly, pressing his lips to the corner of her mouth.

Olivia shivered.

She felt what remained of her burn away, leaving nothing but ashes and open skies, something vast and new and waiting to be filled.

Elliot stilled, his sigh brushing against her lips, and then he was gone.

Olivia opened her eyes, taking in the darkness and adjusting to it.

Even drowned in shadows, she could still make out the exhaustion clouding his features, the fallen posture, the darker hue below his eyes. Something had torn him apart and left this in his place.

His head was bowed.

Restraint was something he used to have, too.

Maybe they had both changed.

Elliot slowly pulled himself up and dropped silently down on the couch next to her, leaning back into the cushions. Heat still radiated from him, and she could feel it seep through the weave of her sweater, wrapping around her.

Rain continued to fall, splashing gently against the glass. Olivia glanced over at him, watching as he stared at the reflected patterns spreading through the shadows on her ceiling as the rain caught whatever light it could find and pulled it in.

She didn't know what to say, if anything could be said, if there were even words for this. Instead she leaned back and rested her head on his shoulder, letting her eyes drift close.

She understood. It was too much, and it would never be enough.

But this was enough for now.

She listened to the lull of rain, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat and her own.

Maybe she could rest here for a while. Just a little while longer.

She breathed, and it was easier than she expected.

____  
FIN


End file.
